His dharma teacher called him Crooked Cucumber
for the produce farmers scattered by the road
on route to market
discarding what they thought
was too ugly, too misshapen
to sell

I'd read his book
Zen Mind Beginner's Mind
brief oral teachings
each one bristling
with Zen wisdom
each casting light
on what had been
in shadow

Nothing easy
about his early life
a wife murdered by someone
he'd invited in
a daughter in a mental institution
the menial work he'd chosen
as his path

But when he spoke
at a gathering near San Jose
his voice was clear
completely free of self
like a cool breeze
blowing through pine boughs

And when he paused and smiled
it seemed as if
his smile had swallowed
not just the room
but the entire universe

Once at Tassahara
in the hills south of Carmel
I saw him moving stones
building a rock wall
he invited me to join him
and the others there
but I wished to be alone
and so declined

Remembering that moment
I feel a faint regret
a certain sadness
even after half a century
I learned later
that he loved
working with stone
who knows what
I might have learned
working with him